Infinite
by AntaresTheEighthPleiade
Summary: The Serpent Mage has more power than Samah and Xar combined, but that doesn't mean he knows how to use it. Or so he says.
1. Inadequate

I don't own the _Death Gate Cycle._ Maybe for Christmas? Please, Santa? I've been very good this year.

* * *

"_I suppose there was training involved, years of study-"  
"Of course. With that much power comes responsibility."  
"The one thing I've never been very good at." _

_-Into the Labyrinth, 419 _

Alfred knew better than anyone that he and Haplo had closed Death's Gate through sheer dumb, desperate luck. That was his modus operandi, how he survived most situations- dumb, desperate luck peppered with just enough magical skill to defeat whatever was trying to kill him this time.

He also knew that it shouldn't be that way. He was (or so everyone kept telling him) the most powerful and talented Sartan who had ever lived. Dragon-snakes said it, the drakes of Pryan said it, Haplo said it, Vasu said it. Ramu didn't say it, but nobody had expected him to- he was Samah's son, after all, and would hardly admit that his proud powerful father had been bested by 'that clumsy buffoon from Arianus.' Or anyone at all, really, but especially not Alfred.

The point was, Alfred lacked the experience and skills he needed- and he knew it. He had a neat-sounding title, a few incredibly powerful spells, and a tendency to surprise himself, but he feared that one day, one day _soon, _that wouldn't be enough. But at the same time, he was afraid to ask for help, because that would mean acknowledging that he had abilities and therefore needs beyond those of the common Sartan.

He did not like to think about that little fact.

But he had to. He _had_ to acknowledge that he wasn't just clumsy, foolish Alfred Montbank anymore- no, that he had never been just clumsy, foolish Alfred Montbank. He was Coren, shape-shifter, spell-weaver, a hero of Abri (and hadn't _that _surprised him when he first found it out!), the Serpent Mage, chosen to choose. Except that he wasn't, not entirely, not yet.

Not yet.

He feared that self-knowledge, but at the same time he was grateful for it. It was the kind of thing he needed to know.

He needed to be less Alfred, more Coren. He needed to accept his power, to set up blocks and take them down, to slough off his worst self. Serpent Mage, he was called. Snakes were symbols of (among other things) intelligence, renewal, rebirth, _growth_. He needed that.

But, Alfred wondered glumly, staring at the blank wall of his new room, how?

Samah and Xar, the only people anywhere near his level, were dead. Ramu might be a source of his father's knowledge—he was no weakling, and he'd known the other Sartan all his life—but Ramu hated him, the Nexus, the Patryns…. Ramu hated lots of things. Alfred doubted he would say around long—he'd probably go off to found his own city. But the point was, Ramu would never help him out, and he was surrounded by dragon-snakes.

So who else? Haplo didn't know, nor did Marit, nor Vasu. He didn't even think about asking Balthazar or one of the Abarrach Sartan, who needed teaching themselves (they had already approached him about mass lessons, which he gave gladly every two days). Other Sartan didn't like him. Neither did most Patryns, though for a different reason.

The drakes, then? Alfred turned the idea around in his mind, couldn't find anything horribly wrong with it. As the manifestations of all goodness in the universe, they wouldn't take advantage of him (unless it was for his own good). But what made him make up his mind was the knowledge that the creatures could read his thoughts, know his intentions. He wouldn't have to humiliate himself by asking one for help directly!

With that in mind, Alfred waited.

And waited. And waited. And then he waited some more.

The moon waned and waxed again. Haplo wrote his books, distributed them to the people. He and Marit formed decided to return to the Labyrinth for their daughter, began to plan their first Run. Balthazar and Vasu finished hammering out their peace treaty. Ramu, true to Alfred's predictions, flatly refused to abide by the terms and led his followers to the other side of the Nexus, vowing to one day reclaim those still loyal to the Patryns—if only, he promised darkly, as a red-eyed form in the background smiled, because it would be difficult to display loyalty to the Patryn race if that race was exterminated.

That was when Alfred realized that if he wanted to get the tutelage he required, he would have to take the first step himself. No more passively waiting for things to happen to him. Now he had to make things happen.

Alfred was not very good at making the first move. That meant calling attention to himself, which meant the risk of exposure, which was (in his mind) identical with the risk of exploitation. Oh, he knew that he was already exposed as a Sartan, and an absurdly powerful one too, but since when had his fears ever been rational? Exactly. And why should they learn reason now?

But fear or not, he _would_ become the person he was meant to be, the person he'd glimpsed on Abarrach and Chelestra, flying above the walls of Abri, falling through Death's Gate as the universe convulsed.

He would.

Especially now that Marit and Haplo were almost ready to leave. They had made most of the necessary preparations for their Run, were planning to leave in two days. Alfred would go with them—he could, in his dragon form, move more quickly than any wingless creatures—and he knew that he'd need every advantage he could get. So, as he walked through the streets of the Nexus, discussing the possibility of another dog, he kept an eye out for dragons.

There. There it was, an immense blue-green form lifting a slab of stone into place. The city was almost finished, but there were still a few houses that needed to be built. They wouldn't be used, not right away (especially since Ramu's exodus, not to mention the dozens of Patryns who had refused to remain so close to their ancestral enemies, had left a great deal of dwellings empty), but were meant for the next wave of escapees from the Labyrinth.

Alfred slowed to a stop, his gaze fixed upon the dragon. It was busy, he told himself. Very busy. He really shouldn't interrupt. He should wait a minute, an hour, a day, forever, before asking this one for help. Or he could find another.

"You all right?" Haplo asked.

Alfred started. He'd almost forgotten the Patryn's presence. "I'm fine," he lied automatically, not turning his gaze from the dragon's sleek form.

Haplo didn't buy it. "Really."

Alfred sighed. The only bad thing about having friends was that it was rather difficult to pull the wool over their eyes. Well, he supposed that it was worth it, all things considered, even if it did make him uncomfortable sometimes. "Not really." He took a step towards the dragon, paused. It would be terribly rude to just leave Haplo there….

No, no, he was being stupid. "Perhaps you should go talk with Marit now," he suggested. "Go over the last few details of your orphanage."

"We've been over those details so many times that I'm starting to recite them in my sleep," Haplo grumbled. He cocked his head at the dragon, not quite understanding what Alfred saw. The drakes were their friends, their allies, nothing like their 'cousins' the dragon-snakes. "What's wrong?"

"I'm just being a coward again," Alfred sighed. "I need to talk with the dragon." He swallowed once, strode forward.

By now, the drake had finished erecting its stone block. Magic shimmered, welding the stone to the rest of the building. It was almost done. Nothing remained unfinished except the roof.

Manners warred with sense. If he went forward now, he'd be breeching etiquette and common courtesy by interrupting the creature's task. If he delayed, though, he might lose courage. Alfred weighed the options, almost turned back, then gritted his teeth and resumed walking until he was right next to the drake.

Blue-green eyes gazed into blue. Alfred flushed, ducked his head. "Er…."

"Yes, Master Montbank?" The creature's voice was cool, level, with just a hint of amusement.

Just do it already. "I need help," he blurted.

"I see." The drake waited for more details.

Beside him, Haplo murmured, "Ah." He understood now. A rune-covered hand placed itself across Alfred's shoulder, a silent sign of support.

Alfred looked up. "I know that I'm—that I'm quite powerful, magically speaking. I also know that my training-" and his background, and his cowardice, and pretty much everything else about him "-is inadequate. Is there… is there any way for you to help me?"

The dragon's head snaked out, drew close to the tense, rigid man. Its breath made Alfred's shirt and coat flutter. "Define help."

Alfred wanted to step away, but Haplo's hand steadied him, kept him in his place. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he whispered. The images he conjured were fabulous, wonderful, and (to him) terrifying: a green and golden dragon, shining like the sun; Sartan runes and Patryn merging to shut Death's Gate; a single sigil on Hugh the Hand's chest; a monstrous corpse, its body decaying around it, trailed by a pitifully ineffective phantasm, collapsing to the ground. Images of power, of the possibilities he had invoked half-unknowingly. Things he had done even without training, things he had the potential to surpass. "I _know _I should do something. There's so much that needs to be done! But I can't. I'm the worst person for this job, just look at what I've already done-"

"Coren," the dragon growled, banishing the picture of Hugh's furious, desperate face. Other images flickered, but too quickly for either man to see.

"Yes?" asked Alfred, hoping for an answer.

The dragon was perfectly still. Not even its tail twitched. "That is your name, is it not, Master Montbank?"

"Yes."

"I assure you, Coren, that your name is a great deal more accurate than Haplo's."

"Oh." Alfred shuffled his feet, cheeks red. "Both meanings, I assume?"

"Of course. Now, what were you so concerned about?"

The red drained from Alfred's face, leaving him pale and sweaty. "Everything," he burst out. "I don't know what to do. I've made so many mistakes, but don't—I just don't know. I need to know. How should I use my magic?"

"How do you want to use your magic?"

Alfred stared at it, completely nonplussed. "What?"

"How do you want to use your magic?" the drake repeated, a portrait of patience.

"Want…?" the Sartan repeated in the tone of one memorizing a strange and exotic new word.

"Yes. The desires of your heart, the things you would do if there were no consequences other than the ones you desired."

"Um…." Alfred glanced at Haplo, who shook his head. This was for the older man to ponder, not for him. "I… suppose it would be nice to enchant the walls of the city to keep the dragon-snakes out."

The drake chuckled. "One day, you should ask a citizen of Abri about their city walls. The results will interest you, I think."

"You could tell me now," Alfred suggested.

"I don't think so. You want to protect the city. Is that all you want to do?"

Alfred's head tilted back.

When he went out into Arianus, he had been so worried about what others would use his magic for that he'd forgotten all about his own wants. He hadn't even considered his own desires when approaching the drake; he'd wanted help knowing when to say no and when to acquiesce. The thought that maybe he didn't have to rely on others to tell him what to do with _his_ magic was a novel one.

But not necessarily a good one, he reminded himself. What happened to poor Sir Hugh wasn't anyone else's fault.

What _did_ he want? What did he dream about in the secret parts of his being? What would he do if he only dared?

Alfred's eyes narrowed, his eyebrows crowding together. In a soft, hesitant voice, as though confessing to a shameful crime, he admitted, "It would be nice to make other exits to the Labyrinth."

"What?" Haplo's head snapped around so quickly that his neck cracked. He ignored the momentary flash of pain, ignored his resolution to act as silent moral support, in favor of gawking at his Sartan friend.

"Well," the other man muttered, wringing his hands, "you mentioned that there are places where the path brushes up against the wall. If the path is already there, why not make another gate? It would be possible if we could work around the warding runes. Although," he added, suddenly scowling, "that probably can never happen as long as the Labyrinth is sentient and in control of itself."

Another thought struck him then, a whim so daring and insane that it took his breath away. _As long as the Labyrinth is sentient and in control of itself…._

"You can pursue that later," the drake promised him, its voice dragging him out of his whirling mind. "Is there anything else?"

"Let me think." Alfred leaned against the wall. If he could remake the world (and he could. He could. The thought, the knowledge, made him break out in goose bumps that were slightly excited, mostly frightened), what would he do? Hm… he couldn't do anything to the dragon-snakes as a race because that would generate a reaction among their Pryanese cousins. Anything resembling necromancy was out, as was reopening Death's Gate (though he didn't want to do either of those things in the first place, so the point wasn't entirely valid). Something to take care of the Labyrinth and probably the majority of its monsters (the sheer audacity made him shiver a bit, made anticipation surge through his body). Nothing about Ramu or the Patryn exiles. Magic could not change their minds, and even if it could, he wouldn't use a spell so invasive and foul. "Just a few things to help those still trapped in the Labyrinth, I think, and whatever I need to do for Runs."

"So selfless," the drake murmured (and was Alfred imagining things, or was it bigger than before?). "Is there anything you wanted to do for yourself?"

Haplo snorted, rolled his eyes.

"I liked flying," Alfred shyly volunteered after a few moments' thought. "I haven't done it much, but it would be nice to take dragon form once in a while and just fly. And it would be interesting to see if I could create a time well like the one in Abri with Sartan magic instead of Patryn."

The drake shrugged, blue-green scales glittering in the pale light of the Nexus. "So go do it," the creature advised, and returned its attention to the half-completed building.

"That's it?" Alfred demanded.

"Yes."

The Sartan cast a helpless glance at Haplo. "Makes sense to me," the Patryn said.

"But I can't."

"Why not?" Haplo and the drake chorused.

Alfred opened and closed his mouth several times but could not find a reply.

"Fear again?" the drake asked gently. Alfred nodded, face red. "No, no, don't shrivel up. I understand. It is very difficult to change, even for the better. Many people do not even try."

The Sartan rediscovered his voice. "I need help becoming more comfortable with this," he said. "Because I need to be able to react at a moment's notice, and I can't now, not really. I need to learn my limits, both the ones my magic naturally possesses and the ones I need to impose upon it."

"You have more than enough of those already," the drake chided. "What you need to learn, Coren, is to trust yourself. Remember that you were indeed chosen."

Alfred shivered. "I'm trying," he whispered. "But it frightens me. I'm afraid to my very bones."

"What frightens you?"

"Everything."

The dragon's blue-green body melted. Scales darkened or lightened depending on their location. Bones rearranged themselves. Soon a Sartan man about Haplo's age was standing before them, head tilted slightly, teal eyes soft with pity. "Then all you need to learn is to let go of the fear."

A rueful, almost bitter smile. "Would you be surprised if I told you that I'm afraid to give up the fear? It might cripple me, yes, but it gives me boundaries. I'm afraid of what I might do without fear."

"Do not be," the creature ordered. "I know, I know—it is easier said than done."

"What will you never do?" Haplo interjected. Alfred frowned, so the Patryn continued, "Name some of those blocks of yours, Coren."

Sadly, he was much quicker to respond this time. "I'll never kill a Patryn, Sartan, or mensch, just dragon-snakes and Labyrinth monsters. No necromancy. Nothing to cause pain, nothing to make others fear me. Nothing to impose my will upon the unwilling. Nothing to make me stick—no, I'll have to do things that will make me stick out. Never mind that block, then."

"The others are good guidelines," the drake observed. "Follow those and dispose of the last."

"I will try," Alfred sighed.

"You will succeed," the drake corrected him. "No, Master Montbank, don't look at me like that. You will."

"If you say so." But the Sartan's tone was doubtful.

The false Sartan's face hardened. "You will," he vowed. "You have already improved so much."

"Not enough." Alfred began to sink into depression. He felt so very inadequate with this awful, daunting task before him.

"Coren." Haplo turned his friend, met his gaze. "Do you really think I'll let anyone take advantage of you?"

A smile, small but glad. "Not really."

"And do you really think I'll let you do anything stupid?"

Alfred's head tilted. The smile grew. "Define 'stupid.'"

"Something that will break any of those other guidelines," Haplo replied promptly.

The Sartan's smile warped into a grin before fading. "But the point remains," he said, returning his attention to the drake. "It's one thing to know all this intellectually. It's quite another to actually become comfortable with…." He forced himself to say it, pushed the words out of his mouth. "…with the fact that I'm more powerful than Samah." He couldn't help but flinch. Ancestors, that sounded arrogant. Not to mention uncomfortably true. He didn't like it, wished he had found another way to phrase it.

The drake chuckled. "Very well then. My brethren and I can help you learn to say that without wincing."

"Good luck with that," Haplo grumbled.

"All right. Without as much of a wince. Does that sound more plausible?"

"Just a bit."

The dragon stepped back. Its form rippled once more, grew large and scaly. The neck elongated, teeth sharpened. Wings (not part of its natural form) and a tail (which was) sprouted from its body. "Would you like to fly with me?" it asked, no longer bothering to keep its voice down.

Alfred blinked. "What?" The change of direction left him lost and confused.

"You said that you liked to fly in your dragon form," the drake explained. "Would you like to do so now?"

Alfred looked over his shoulder. They weren't in a busy part of the city, but a small cluster of young Patryns was loitering on the street corner, watching their interactions with cold suspicion. The older man imagined their reaction to a Sartan changing himself into a dragon and winced again. "Perhaps later."

The drake frowned.

Oh. He was supposed to say yes. He was supposed to transform in front of people, to do something impossible where strangers could see him. In other words, to become a bit more comfortable with his strength. Fear, instinctive, irrational, so very strong, spiked. He swallowed, told it to go away.

It didn't.

The drake was waiting for him to change his answer. Well, Alfred reflected, that's what this is about, isn't it? I need to accept.

"Would you like to come with us, Haplo?"

The Patryn didn't hesitate. "Sure." It looked like his friend could use a hand. Besides, he and Marit would be riding dragon back tomorrow, so it was wise to get a bit more experience in.

The Sartan beamed at him, relief stealing years from his face. "All right. Can you grab the shoulder of my coat?" That was what Marit had done on Abarrach. She'd been clinging to him, fighting the lazar's poison, when the magic had transformed him.

Feeling a bit stupid, Haplo grabbed the shoulder of his coat.

Alfred nodded, pointedly _not_ thinking about the blatantly staring bystanders. Honestly, couldn't they at least pretend to look away? Perhaps not—he was a Sartan and therefore not to be trusted, after all. But still.

The drake moved away, giving him enough space to transform. Alfred smiled his thanks, sang the spell.

Magic flickered within him, filled his blood with bubbles of happiness. His body shifted, becoming big and strong and safe. His senses expanded, filling his mind with dazzling new information. Smells were so much more powerful, the world brighter, sounds louder.

Across the street, the watching Patryns gasped. Alfred had never really transformed in public before. He had been alone at Abri, almost alone on Abarrach (Haplo, Marit, and the dog didn't count as 'public.' They were friends and therefore not intimidating). Yes, hundreds had seen him fight at Abri, and some of Balthazar's people had glimpsed him escaping Lord Xar, but he'd never made a spectacle of the transformation. It simply wasn't part of his nature. His friend's assurance had briefly helped him forget the others' presence, but now he was uncomfortably aware of them. They had seen him perform magic which no normal person could do, seen the proof of his power. He wished he'd transformed elsewhere. Perhaps he could have gone around the house, used it to block him.

Haplo shifted his position, settled himself in among the dragon's spikes. "Ignore them," he ordered. A hand touched the nearest green scale.

"_Okay." _Not easy to do, not with his heightened senses or his natural modesty, but he could try. He had to try. "_Where should we go, Haplo?"_

"Where do you want to go?" the Patryn retorted, a smile in his voice.

The dragon huffed softly. His long, tapering tail flicked. _"I don't know the landscape as well as you, but didn't you mention that there's a lake over there?"_ He almost pointed, remembered his new form at the last second. Instead of righting himself and pointing with a claw, which Haplo might not see anyways from his position on the other's back, he stretched his neck in the correct direction.

"There is. It would be good practice to find it from the air."

"_Perfecting our navigation techniques?_"

"Exactly." Haplo realized that he was patting the dragon's scale—patting Alfred's scale. That, he decided, was weird. He brought his hand up, settled it on his leg. "Shall we go, then?"

"_Let's."_ There was a bit too much relief in Alfred's mental voice—he was plainly still aware of the awed, gawking onlookers—but Haplo let it slide. "_Brace yourself, my friend. Three, two, one…."_

Muscles bunched, pushed. Alfred launched himself into the air, wings snapping open in a sunburst of gold. He felt Haplo adjust himself, holding onto one of his brilliant spikes. _"We really ought to do something about that," _the Sartan commented, half to his friend, half to himself. "_I think I could reconstruct one of the saddles the Arianus humans used for war dragons-"_

"No," Haplo interrupted.

"_But I suspect that we'll have to do a great deal of difficult maneuvering-"_

"I'm not putting a saddle on my best friend."

"_Are you sure? As I said, we probably will end up rolling around in midair."_

"As I said, I'm not putting a saddle on my best friend."

By this time, they had finished ascending. The dragon winged his way to the east, towards the pond he'd heard about. Beneath them, the drake called, "Did you want to find Marit before leaving?"

"_Did you, Haplo?"_

"All right."

One golden wing folded. Alfred veered to his left, careful not to send Haplo flying off his back. The Nexus, fresh and beautiful, spread out below him like a painting. The Nexus, fresh and beautiful and filled with people who must, even now, must be looking up at the large, brightly colored, extremely conspicuous dragon above them.

Oh.

Maybe he shouldn't have volunteered to go pick up Marit. Their home was on the other side of the city. To get there, he'd have to fly over all those buildings, all those people who must recognize him from the descriptions in Haplo's new books.

He gulped.

But he'd said he would bring Haplo to Marit, so he kept flying towards their new home, a large and simply built domicile with a bit of space around it. Eventually, that space would be shaped into an edible garden with perhaps a tree or two, but right now it was clear, wide enough for a dragon to touch down on either side of the—wait. Where was the drake? Alfred craned his neck but couldn't see any flashes of blue-green. It seemed he had been abandoned.

He began a gentle dive, once again being careful about Haplo. He turned slightly, changing his momentum, before flaring slightly upwards. He landed on all fours, his back level lest he drop his Patryn friend.

Haplo dismounted. "I'll be right back," he promised, darting into the house.

"_Okay._" Alfred shifted his weight, stepped forward to look into the second and third story windows. Nothing. He stretched, looked into the fourth floor. Once again, nothing. _"Marit? Are you in there?"_

No answer.

"_Haplo," _he called, "_I don't think she's here._"

The Patryn man walked out of the house. "You're right. She's not. Do you know where Marit is?"

Alfred's heart skipped a beat—Haplo hadn't been asking him. His head snapped around, eyes widening as he saw a quartet of Patryns standing on the street.

Oh, no.

"_Haplo,_" he whispered, despite using a mind-voice that he was only projecting to his friend, "_these people are looking at me._"

The other man patted his side as he approached the onlookers. So what if the action was weird? Alfred plainly needed it. "Have you seen her?" he queried.

"No," gulped one of the Patryns, not taking her gaze off the wondrous green and golden dragon. And was she _crying?_ She was. Tears shone in the corners of her eyes. Her voice was thick, choked.

Compassion overwhelmed Alfred's discomfort. He stepped forward, tail trailing across the grass. "_Are you all right, my dear?_"

"I'm fine," she assured him. Her hand twitched upward, toward the dragon's nose. She hesitated a moment, then patted him gently on the snout, assuring herself that this shining creature was indeed real. "It's just that—nothing." She drew back, head shaking, hair falling before her eyes. "Nothing." One of her companions swallowed hard.

"_Oh. Well, if there is anything I can do to help, please let me know._" His tail twitched, his crests flicked. He was really quite uncomfortable.

"Thank you," the woman murmured. She reached out again, resumed patting his face. "You…. You saved my life at Abri."

"_Oh. Did I?"_ This was quite, quite uncomfortable….

"Thank you." She scratched him behind the crest once, a surprisingly nice sensation that made his eyes flutter shut, then nodded and walked away. Her companions followed.

"_Haplo. Help me remember to never show this face in public again."_ His crests flicked, his tail twitched.

Haplo laughed. "Then how do you intend to save people on tomorrow's Run?"

The Sartan-turned-dragon groaned. "_At least not in the Nexus, then. Now come on. Let's go find that lake." _He lowered himself into a crouch, allowed the Patryn to climb once more onto his back. "_You're settled?_"

"I'm good."

"_Excellent."_ He considered, thought better of walking to the water. He was really trying to get more comfortable. Really. Which meant that he would probably have to show his dragon-self in the Nexus once again. The dragon sighed softly but launched himself once more into the air, wings thudding like thunder.

He stayed low, just above the tree line, partly for speed and partly because it was only his first day of trying to get more comfortable in his own skin and he was still embarrassed by the Patryn woman's tears. "_I learned a bit about dragon navigation on Arianus, but that doesn't apply here because you're not controlling me magically. We need to think of a steering system. Perhaps you could tap my shoulder to make me turn?" _

Haplo tapped his left shoulder. His mount began a gentle turn. _"That seems to work quite well, don't you think?"_

"It did."

Flying was just as fun as Alfred remembered it—better, even, because this time he wasn't fighting monsters or fleeing a terrifying Patryn lord. Invisible currents of warm and cold air, his powerful golden wings, kept him upright, moving forward. His graceful, slender tail helped him navigate; just a swish could cause a change in direction. And the rider on his back was there to guide him. Their impromptu system of navigation was modified twice more on that ride: one tap would result in a slow turn, two taps in a more rapid change of direction, and rapping him on the spike meant he should descend. Sure enough, Haplo soon tapped the spike. They were at the lake. Alfred obediently swooped down.

"How long are we going to stay here?" Haplo wondered.

"_How long did you want to stay?" _Alfred craned his head, neck bent almost in a circle.

The Patryn chuckled, slid off his friend's back. "Let's see if we can get some fish for dinner."

"Okay," Alfred said, a Sartan once again. "I've never really done this before."

"I suppose you wouldn't have." And so a magic lesson turned into a fishing lesson.

About two hours later, Alfred transported them (and their catch) home. The two men were soaking wet and grinning like idiots, laughing and teasing each other.

Marit raised an eyebrow as they entered the house. "I thought you two were going flying?"

"We did," Alfred explained, not bothering to ask how she knew. "We flew to a lake Haplo found a while back. He taught me how to fish." The Sartan displayed two large trout.

"You don't know how to—right, you're from Arianus. Of course." It was sometimes hard to remember that Alfred's native land was different from the Labyrinth in more way than one. "I take it that the lesson didn't go well?" she added, gesturing at their wet clothes.

The men blushed. For Alfred, that was no big deal. He blushed all the time. Haplo, though, did not.

Marit raised an eyebrow.

"There was a slippery patch of ground," her significant other explained. "And a very, very big fish." He showed her his own catch, which was almost as big as he was.

"But other than that, it was quite an enjoyable experience," Alfred hastened to add. "And even that was quite funny."

"For you, maybe."

The Sartan chuckled. "It's not often that I get to laugh at someone else's stumbling."

"True," Haplo acknowledged, lips twitching. "Though I maintain that you're the one who knocked me in."

"I was trying to help you," he mock-grumbled.

"You can tell me the rest of the story while we're working," Marit informed them.

"Of course."

As they gutted, roasted, and dried their catch, Haplo and Alfred explained the afternoon's events to their friend. Her only response was that it was about time Alfred started living up to his title (not that she blamed him for being afraid, she added, seeing him wince. But still). And the navigational system would aid them enormously on tomorrow's Run.

At the mention of the Run, all three companions fell silent. Ah, yes. The Run. Their return, their voluntary return, to the Labyrinth.

Naturally, all three people were terrified. The Labyrinth despised Alfred especially—it had tried to drop a mountain on him, for heaven's sake! It didn't loathe Haplo and Marit quite so much, but they had a whole smorgasbord of bad experiences associated with it. The memories were awful, almost enough to make them physically sick, always enough to give them nightmares. Each night, at least one of the house's residents woke up in a cold sweat, staring wildly around his or her room for a red dragon, for a snog, for a roc or tiger-man or some other abomination.

"We will come back." Alfred was the first to speak. "And we'll bring your daughter with us." His voice wavered a bit on the last part.

"Yeah." Haplo nodded, eyes unseeing. His hand gripped Marit's tightly enough to cut off circulation.

"We will," Alfred repeated, his voice a bit stronger. He drew both his friends into a hug, warm arms encircling them. Neither protested.

Someone knocked on their door. The three friends jumped, separated, embarrassed by their temporary display of weakness. Haplo and Marit slipped on their masks of strength. They hadn't let any of the general public see how much returning frightened them, didn't want to start now.

But it wasn't the general public who had come to see them. It was Vasu, headman of Abri and de facto leader of all the Patryns in the Nexus. Haplo and Marit quickly signed their people's rune for respect and friendship in the air; Alfred followed suit with the Sartan equivalent. "Please, Headman, come in."

Vasu entered, accepted a place at their table. If he noticed that their meat was a bit burnt (they'd lost track of time while thinking about the next day), he didn't mention it. "Do you need help with any last-minute preparations?"

"No, thank you," Marit replied. "We've been preparing almost since we arrived back in the Nexus."

"I know," Vasu acknowledged, "but experience has taught me that there's always something that rears its ugly head at the last second."

"We're ready," Haplo guaranteed. "We have a plan, a communication system, supplies, enough weapons for the two of us-" He cast a brief glare at Alfred, who had stubbornly refused to learn swordplay. The Sartan blushed, mouthed something that looked like 'fangs and claws.' "-everything we need."

"Then you are better planners than I am," Vasu muttered. "Good for you. Do you have any idea how long your trip will take?"

"Hopefully just two or three days." They wanted to get out again as soon as possible. "Perhaps, in later Runs-" And there would be later Runs. There _would_ be. "-we'll be gone longer, but not now. If it turns out that we haven't thought of everything, I want to be as close to the Final Gate as possible."

"A good plan," Vasu agreed. "If you do think of anything I can do to assist you, please let me know."

"Healers near the Final Gate," Marit declared, eyes dark. "Just in case."

"It will be done. Can you think of anything else?"

Alfred remembered something the drake had mentioned. Seeing that neither of his friends had anything else to add, he said, "This has nothing to do with tomorrow, Headman, but I was told to ask someone about the builder of Abri's walls. If you have the time, could you perhaps tell me a bit about him or her?"

To his surprise, Vasu grinned. "It's about time you asked about Constin." He jerked forward, eyes going wide. "Alfred, are you all right?"

The Sartan nodded, face very pale. Constin. It was not exactly the same, neither 'to choose' nor 'chosen,' but the meaning was close enough. 'Constin' meant 'choice.' "He was… like me, wasn't he." It was not a question.

"Yes." Vasu settled back, speculation shining in his remarkable brown eyes. "Constin was indeed the only other serpent mage in recorded history. He was also the greatest citizen Abri ever produced."

"…Oh." Alfred stared into his cup, fascinated by the patterns the water made.

"At least in my opinion," Vasu admitted. "But everyone agrees that he was one of our best. He was born in the Squatter settlement that predated Abri approximately nine hundred fifty Gates ago-"

Alfred shuddered.

"Are you quite certain you're all right?" the headman demanded, eyeing him with suspicion.

"That's when I was born," he whispered. His knuckles were white, a stark contrast to the brown of his cup. "Let me guess. He died or disappeared fairly young, in his early twenties?"

"…Indeed. That is when you went into the stasis sleep?"

The Sartan flinched. "I didn't know," he whispered. "I had no idea that my going to sleep would-"

Vasu shrugged. "You had no way of knowing," he pointed out. "And he would be dead now anyways. So none of us can possibly blame you."

"That means you're not allowed to blame yourself either," Haplo announced.

"Right. It's not my fault."

"He'd be dead anyways," Marit reiterated. "Unless he created some Patryn version of the sleep?"

Vasu shook his head. "No, the stories make it clear that he was quite dead."

Alfred raised the cup to his mouth, used it as an excuse not to look at anybody else. "If Constin designed Abri's protective rune-structure, then he was quite talented." Talent was safe, or at least safer. "How much of the design has stayed the same?"

"All of it. Those runes have stood unchanged for almost a millennium. Every few years, someone goes to check them for cracks, but we've never found any. At least not until the dragon-snakes."

"Wait." Marit couldn't believe it. "Did you just say that those runes—not the general structure, but the runes themselves—have stayed the same for nine hundred Gates?"

"I did."

Alfred dropped his cup. It hit his foot and shattered, clay and water flying everywhere. "N-nine _hundred…?_" Nine centuries of monsters, of Labyrinth dragons and boggleboes and the prison maze itself, tearing away at the walls. Nine hundred years of wear and tear, and it still took the combined efforts of the Labyrinth's worst demons _and_ the dragon-snakes to break them—nine hundred years later.

"They were his life's work," Vasu explained. "Each day, he would enchant perhaps fifty feet of wall. The stories say he was famished, exhausted afterwards, that he nearly died several times when the Labyrinth took advantage of his weakness. But because he used so much of his considerable power for the protection of others, as opposed to saving himself, Constin's work has kept my people safe for generations."

No wonder, then, that Vasu considered him one of Abri's greatest citizens.

Alfred leaned over, began picking up pieces of broken pottery. "How impressive," he mumbled, feeling more inadequate than ever. Constin's face, preserved through the magic of the Patryn language, floated through his mind. A tall man, just as tall as Alfred himself but without the stoop, his muscled body covered in tattoos the color of his eyes—the color (though Alfred did not realize this) of his own eyes as well. Not quite handsome, but strong-featured and confident, a small smile on his face as he carved his magic onto stone.

"Oh, but you don't know the best part," Vasu chuckled. "He somehow used the Labyrinth's own magic to power his creation."

"He did?" Alfred looked up, his cup and wet foot forgotten. "You mean he siphoned bits of latent magical energy from the Labyrinth itself? That's brilliant!" The Sartan stood, remembered his connection with the man in question. His shoulders slumped.

"Yes, and he knew it. Unlike you, Constin was a rather arrogant man. He had known of his power since childhood, and it went to his head. The constant attempts on his life kept him from becoming too unbearable, but he was still a bit of a snob. The stories say that after he'd finished the wall, Constin boasted to his wife that his next project would be the death of the Labyrinth itself. At that, the Labyrinth finally had enough. It sent ten dragons to kill him."

Alfred blanched, as did Marit and Haplo. "If you ever decide to kill the Labyrinth, Sartan, don't brag about it _when you're still inside_."

"I wasn't planning on it," Alfred replied, not saying which action he didn't plan on taking. "But how did Constin plan to-"

"No one knows. He never recorded it in his journals."

"…Journals?"

"Yes, journals." Vasu's mouth quirked up in a smile. "Would you like to read them, Alfred?"

Read books penned by another with his power, his burden? A man more arrogant than he—Constin probably hadn't seen this power as a burden—but still someone who might begin to understand. "I would like that very much, Headman, but I should wait until we get back from our Run. Otherwise I'd stay up all night and be absolutely useless in the morning."

"It will be arranged. _When _you three return, it will be arranged."

* * *

This is the infamous one-shot I've been working on for months, except it's no longer a one-shot. It'll probably have 5ish chapters of 6k words each. I think. This story kind of surprised me... It takes place right after the books but before "Embodied." It overlaps with "Vigil" (which has a couple references to Constin and the lessons) and makes reference to some of my other stories (especially post-chapter 6, which is when my second foray into the fandom started) in "Tales from the Nexus."

The reasoning behind Constin: Why, if the Sartan mage-naming system was so complex, did Vasu know the exact ranking of Serpent offhand? He could have looked it up, I guess, but this explanation is much more entertaining and ties in with the idea of balance. Though no, there aren't any other Patryns that powerful running around now that Alfred's awake again. Such a creature would probably devolve into a Sue or Stu, and we don't want those. But Constin is dead and I don't have to worry about him getting Stuified, and with Alfred, that's not even an issue.

Merry Christmas!

-Antares


	2. Informed

Six days later, Alfred approached another dragon of Pryan. "I'm ready for my next lesson, now," he said quietly.

The drake-in-elven-form raised a delicate blond eyebrow. "Are you."

"I am."

"You're dead on your feet," it observed. "When is the last time you slept?"

"Two days ago," Alfred admitted, "but I'm afraid that if I don't do something now, I'll lose the courage to arrive at my real next lesson."

The drake shook its head. "Worry not, Master Montbank. My people have no intention of letting you slack off." It smiled teasingly. "Nor, I'm sure, do Haplo and Marit."

Alfred smiled back; the creature had a point.

"Now go back home. See to your new children."

"They're sleeping," he replied. "They're even more exhausted than I am, poor things." His smile faded. "I'm not quite certain if…."

"You might be a Sartan, Coren, but you are also the man who helped save their lives. They will learn to love you, just as you have already learned to love them—though I've no doubt that the children will prove more difficult pupils."

"I hope so." He always had loved children, always had wanted some of his own. That wasn't likely, not at his age, and anyways, these children were in desperate need of love. They could be his in spirit, if not in blood.

Besides, _someone _had to make sure that Haplo and Marit remembered the children's youth. Without his influence, they'd probably try to turn the children into a group of soldiers. Someone had to be there to play with them, to give them the remainder of their childhoods.

They had struck gold with this Run, somehow bringing back one of the largest Squatter tribes Haplo or Marit had ever seen. One hundred Patryns strong, it had stayed together for the past twenty Gates. However, as time went on, many of its members chose to Run instead of Squat. The remainder were either quite old or heavily pregnant or too young to go out on their own. That, of course, made the tribe weaker; they had been desperately trying to recruit new members when a large green dragon had swooped down from the skies and offered them hope.

Since the tribe's demographic was so uneven, there was a surplus of children in need of guardians. Two of them were little girls named Rue; the other ten consisted of six boys and four girls ranging in age from three to thirteen. Haplo and Marit had no idea which, if either, of the Rues was theirs, but they didn't much care. They were both their daughters now.

Alfred transported back. His friends were sitting in the main room, resting, tired after the strain of their Run and the different, though equally valid, strain of helping the children settle in. Those children were sleeping now, curled up in soft blankets on the upper floor, their faces relaxed for the first time in their short lives.

Haplo half-opened an eye. "You're home early," he observed, his voice a bit slurred from tiredness.

Alfred smiled, nodded. "They pointed out that I'm dead on my feet and should come back tomorrow."

Haplo nodded back. "They're right. Go to sleep, my friend."

"Only when you two do," he retorted. "You're both as exhausted as I am. Maybe worse." He folded his arms, fixed them with a stern gaze. "Go to bed now."

"Yes, Mother," Marit muttered, but her voice and smile were fond.

It didn't take Alfred long to fall asleep, to tumble into a dream. A good dream, nothing like the nightmare he'd expected. He floated on a wave of light and time, his body relaxed, his heart at peace. Beautiful music filled the air. Rune-magic. Alfred sang along with it, hands waving half to conduct the song, half to trace the runes in the air. Was there really any difference? he wondered blearily. He was warm and happy and content, soaring through the magic like his dragon-self soared through the air.

"Enjoying yourself, Alfred?" growled a dark, familiar voice.

Alfred righted himself. The bliss shattered, leaving him cold and frightened. His heart thundered in his chest. He fell, landing awkwardly on the ground, nearly twisting his ankle. "S-sir Hugh," he squeaked. "You're- you're-"

Hugh the Hand smiled at him, teeth gleaming. His shirt's top button was undone, revealing the happily pulsing rune on his chest. The sigil seemed almost happy to see its maker again. "Surprised to see me? But you shouldn't be."

"You're dead." A whimper, a pathetic denial. Alfred shook his head, not wanting to believe it. "I changed the spell. Three more deaths, then you'd be gone for good. I know I-"

"You thought you changed the spell." Hugh leaned forward, yanked the prone Sartan upright. Their faces nearly touched; he could feel the assassin's breath on his cheeks. "But you didn't, because you're such an incompetent wreck that you couldn't even do that right. I'm back, _Serpent Mage._ And I don't want to be." His grip tightened. Alfred struggled to breathe. "Now let me go!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't-"

Hugh shook him once; tremors wracked his body as though he were a ragdoll. "I don't care what you didn't do! _Let me go!_"

"But I did!" Alfred wailed.

Hugh snarled, shook him again. This time, he didn't stop. "Then why am I still here?"

The force of his shaking made Alfred bite his tongue. Blood pooled in his mouth, trickled down his throat, made it even harder to breathe. His chest constricted, guilt and misery and fear choking him even more effectively than the blood. "I'm sorry!"

"Not good enough!"

The assassin threw him. Alfred went flying through the air, falling as he'd once fallen from the Labyrinth's skies. He kept his eyes shut, shaking, waiting for Hugh to come back and get him.

He didn't have to wait long. Footsteps sounded. The Sartan peeked, one eye half-opening. Sure enough, there was Hugh, the rune on his chest glowing, the blade on his belt shivering in anticipation, red eyes gleaming hungrily—

Wait. Red eyes? Hugh didn't have red eyes. He hadn't had red eyes a moment ago.

Alfred pushed himself to his feet. Sure enough, there was another Hugh, bound and bleeding, lying in a pool of his own blood just a few feet away. Even as he watched, the prone body began to heal, the rune on his chest doing its work. White-faced, Alfred looked up at the other Hugh. The dragon-snake in Hugh's form.

A lazy smile crossed the monster's face. "Remember me, Serpent Mage?" it hissed.

Alfred stepped back. A rune-song rose in his throat. He tried to sing, tried to change himself, but the monster's might cut through his magic, kept him in his weak Sartan form. Kept him helpless. It was powerful, fat from his fear, from Hugh's despair and rage. "N-no. Now go away. I'm not—I'm not afraid of you." A lie, a pathetic, unbelievable lie. But he forced himself to stop backing away, to stand tall and firm, shoulders squared, eyes narrow.

Hugh's stolen body warped, grew huge and twisted. And scarred. The creature's scaly hide had been punctured in several places, broken and even uglier than the rest of it. Its wounds had healed, but the circles of lighter scales would remain forever.

"Recognize me now?" It spoke in its true voice, a voice that Alfred recognized. He'd heard that voice on Chelestra, on Draknor, listened to it beg for mercy. Mercy which he hadn't given.

"Royal One."

"Yes!"

The serpent lunged. Alfred threw himself aside, unable to perform any spells before the head hit him, crushed him between its jaws. He managed, barely, to get out of the way; the Royal One's mouth grazed his shoe. Alfred pushed himself up, scrambling, but it was too late. He would die, he would—

Chanting filled the air. Light flared; a rune-rope lassoed the serpent, distracted it long enough for Alfred to switch forms. The green and golden dragon lunged, fangs and claws slipping into the monster's scars. Magic mingled with his snarl, flayed the meat from the dragon-snake's bones. The beast's muscles evaporated, leaving nothing but a charred skeleton.

Alfred spat blood from his mouth, not all of it his own, turned to see the face of his savior.

A Patryn man stood before him, very straight, very tall. He was young, somewhere in his early or mid-twenties, with rather homely features and blue eyes the color of his protective tattoos. Something about him looked familiar, but Alfred couldn't place him. He was probably from Abri, though—another Patryn would have let the Sartan die before attacking the dragon-snake.

Alfred shifted back into his usual form, raised his hands in the universal gesture of peace. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome, Brother."

The Sartan's jaw sagged. It was one thing for a Patryn to save his life. It was quite another for that same Patryn to call his ancestral enemy _brother._ "I'm sorry?"

Annoyance flashed in the stranger's eyes. "Haplo's right. Quit apologizing," he snapped, sounding exactly like his slightly older kinsman. "You're the Serpent Mage, aren't you?"

Alfred just stared at him.

The man huffed. "Aren't you?" he repeated.

"Oh!" Alfred started. "Well, yes. I am."

"Then start acting like one," the stranger ordered.

Alfred opened his mouth. He could think of several things to say to that (few of which were polite), but something kept him from a snarky retort. Instead, he heaved a bone-rattling sigh and sank to the ground. "I know. I'm trying. I really am." He glanced up at the not-so-strange stranger, gazed at him sideways.

Oh.

The man nodded, a tiny smile quirking his lips, came to squat beside the Sartan.

They sat there in companionable silence for a long time, staring out at the gently rolling ocean. Not Chelestra's magic-nullifying sea. A different ocean, one that had died when Samah entered the Seventh Gate all those centuries ago. Alfred didn't know its name, didn't care.

"I admit it's tough," the man said finally. "Very tough. Everyone asking for this or that, parents wanting tutelage for their children, headmen pestering you about an exodus. So many choices…. But the thing is, you're the one with the magic. You don't have to listen to them. You're the one who gets to choose, Coren." He chuckled softly. "Of course, you can do what I did and take that attitude too far. We're opposites, you and I: humble and arrogant, meek and loud, Sartan and Patryn. But in other ways, we're the same. Each time we stand aside, each time someone suffers when we could have fixed that… each time, we die a little inside."

"I know, Constin," Alfred whispered, not meeting the other's gaze. "Believe me, I know." He stood, just as straight and tall as the other man. They really did look alike, equals in height, slender, their eyes the same color, though not the same in other ways. "If you'll excuse me, there's something I need to do."

The Sartan padded towards Hugh the Hand. The assassin's flesh had knit together, had made him whole again, but he wasn't at peace. He wouldn't be at peace until Alfred released him.

"Sir Hugh?"

The Hand met his eyes. "Yeah?"

"On our way to Abarrach, I gave you a choice. Do you remember?"

"I remember. And I chose to die three more times before leaving permanently. That's why those things in Haplo's homeland got me." He scowled.

"I give you that choice again," Alfred said quietly.

"Then let me go." No hesitation, no pause. Just simple, clear acknowledgement.

"I will." He closed his eyes, let the magic flow through him. When he opened his eyes, Hugh's body lay flat across the ground. His eyes were closed, his lips curved in a gentle smile. The rune on his chest was gone.

Alfred looked up, at Constin. "As you see, I'm-"

"Shut up." The Patryn waved a negligent hand. "Shut up and listen."

Alfred shut up and listened. But Constin was silent, listening himself. Finally, he murmured, "Do you hear it?"

Music…. He'd always been able to hear it, whenever he focused, a whisper of song in the place between sleep and the waking world. The place where spells came from—at least for him. Others could craft incantations from careful reason, from long hours of logic and deduction, and, in truth, so could he. He just preferred the silent song that had sung him to sleep in his cradle.

"For me, it's chanting," Constin confided. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back. "I thought I was mad as a child, hearing chanting all the time."

"I thought so too," the Sartan confessed. "Though for me, it's a song, a beautiful song. It lulled me to sleep as a baby. Then it came to hurt too much. It was a reminder, you see, of happier times." He thought of his ghosts, his friends. "So I denied it. I denied it, hid it deep inside, and that is the source of much, if not most of my current incompetence." A sigh. "You see, I'm not particularly good at this. As you say, I don't _act _like it. I've made, I will make, so many mistakes-"

"You've made, you will make, even more miracles, so accept your errors and move on."

Alfred gave a wan little smile. This Patryn was a great deal more practical than he had ever been. He reminded him of the drake, nonchalant and trusting. Softly, sadly, he murmured, "I wish I was more like you."

Constin shrugged. "And I wish I'd been more like you."

Alfred's jaw sagged. He spluttered, incapable of speech.

"I wasn't exactly the most likeable person," Constin admitted. "Nor was I particularly well-suited for my task. No, don't look at me like that. I wasn't. A lot of what I did was for showing off, even for the thrill of spell casting, not for protecting people."

Alfred stared. Sure, he knew that some people liked to show off their magic, and he himself adored the simple sensation of enacting possibilities, but….

"You, though—even when you do wrong, you do it for the right reasons." He nodded at Hugh's corpse. "Pity, mercy, compassion. And that means you'll go farther than I ever did."

"_What_?"

"Ow!" Haplo jerked back, rubbing his forehead. "What was that for, Sartan?"

Alfred blinked owlishly at his friend. His brain was still asleep, still standing before Hugh's corpse. "Haplo?" he asked. Where had Constin gone? Why wasn't he—oh. He must have been dreaming. Yes. He'd been dreaming, and now he was awake. Yes, that would indeed explain everything except why his forehead hurt.

"Is there any reason you just tried to head-butt Haplo?" Marit asked, lips twitching.

"Oh." Alfred blushed. All right, now everything had been explained. "He startled me."

"I noticed," Haplo muttered, wondering why his runes hadn't protected him from the Sartan's surprise. "We weren't intending to wake you up, though. Just checking on you."

"Oh." Alfred smiled, feeling warm and fuzzy inside. It was nice to have someone check up on him, nice that they cared enough to do so. "Thank you. Good morning."

"Good morning," Haplo returned.

They spent the next few hours helping the children adjust, showing them around the city and explaining some of the facts of their new lives. Haplo and Marit did more than Alfred; the older man was a Sartan. Even if he had helped save them, they were still cautious enough to reserve judgment. And though Alfred couldn't deny that their aloofness hurt, he couldn't help but understand. From their perspective, he was potentially a wolf in sheep's clothing, a disaster waiting to happen.

And they didn't even know about his power yet. Alfred dreaded telling them, dreaded explaining that he had once won a battle against Samah himself.

Then, on their way back, Marit ruined all the Sartan's plans by turning to him and asking when he would go to the drakes.

"What for?" asked Enno, a round-faced boy of four. At least, they thought he was four.

Alfred turned very red. He hemmed and hawed and didn't quite meet their gaze, but in the end he grudgingly admitted that he might be a wee bit more powerful than the average Sartan.

Haplo snorted. "He's more powerful than Samah ever was but didn't realize it until just a few weeks ago. He's going to talk with the drakes about what to do with that power."

The children's eyes went very wide. "Really? Samah?"

Alfred gazed down at his shoes, red from the base of his neck to the top of his head. "I'm not quite certain how that happened," he mumbled, "but… yes. So people keep telling me."

"Oh." Rue nodded. "That explains the shiny dragon then." She looked torn between relief that not all Sartan could transform into shiny dragons and worry that this one could.

"How could you not know something like that?" Britta demanded. "You can't possibly be that stupid."

"It's a very long story…." Somehow (probably because he didn't want to appear threatening, and making them laugh at him was better than making them fear him), Alfred ended up reciting his biography to the children in more detail than he'd ever given it before. Not even Haplo had heard some of the stories he told. The children were torn between horror, amusement, and mockery at the beginning (the incident wherein he'd flooded the High Realms with a simple replication spell _was_ rather funny now that he wasn't in imminent danger of drowning), but that graduated to horror and grudging sympathy, followed by even more grudging not-quite-respect as he related his part in Haplo's _Death Gate Cycle._ "So yes," he concluded, squirming beneath the children's collective gaze, "I rather desperately need a bit of help. But I'd rather not leave you."

"Go," Britta ordered. "Before you flood the Nexus and drown us all."

Alfred frowned. "I'll have you remember that I was two years old at the time."

Britta blinked at him.

Alfred had the feeling that he'd just been insulted.

"Eat something first, though," Marit advised. Alfred was physically better off than when she had first met him (there was a reason that she and Haplo had taken him for so many walks around the Nexus), but he still needed to eat regularly. He was no Patryn, able to go two or more days without food.

The Sartan, knowing that she wouldn't let him go otherwise, agreed. He grabbed a quick lunch before heading to the outskirts of the city. Surely there would be a drake nearby.

Sure enough, there was. A trio of dragons was working on the forest, helping the trees grow taller and stronger, their leaves greener. Alfred waited politely until the creatures were finished. Then, when the trees around him stopped visibly changing, he approached, exchanged pleasantries. Or at least he tried to. The drakes knew exactly why he was there and had little time to waste.

"You're certain you want to do this?" one asked. This one had the deep voice of a male. It was slightly larger than its comrades, its fangs slightly thicker than normal. "For once you make your choice, Coren, there will be no going back."

His heart clenched in his chest. For a moment he was tempted to give in, to back away. "_I've made, I will make, so many mistakes-" _

Constin's voice, annoyed, impatient. _"You've made, you will make, even more miracles, so accept your errors and move on."_

Accept your errors and move on. Accept your power, your burden, even your fear… and move on.

Alfred swallowed hard. He squeezed shut his eyes, clenched his fists. When he opened his eyes, they were filled with determination, their usual mildness gone. "I choose to become the Serpent Mage."

And a burden lifted from his shoulders that he hadn't even known was there. He had made his choice, he had chosen, and it felt wonderful. He was more at peace with himself than he had been since the closing of Death's Gate, when he might have died without apology.

The drakes beamed at him, their expressions filled with transcendent joy. "Congratulations, Coren," the largest said.

"We are so, so glad for you," another agreed. This one spoke in a higher pitch, a rich alto instead of its comrade's baritone. "Now come, Coren, Serpent Mage. We will help you."

He followed them deeper into the forest, glad that they weren't making him display his gifts (and they were gifts. Really. They really were gifts. If he told himself that often enough, he might start believing it) in front of the entire city. Well, not yet. There's no telling what they would make him do later on in his training.

"Today's lesson is an exercise in shape-shifting," the third, formerly silent dragon explained. "You have already experience the wonder of a dragon form—an excellent first choice, if I say so myself—but it's wise for you to try out other shapes."

"That makes sense." And, more importantly, it didn't sound too intimidating. They weren't demanding that he rain down terror upon their enemies or anything like that.

"I'm glad you think so, Coren." Its mouth quirked up in a toothy smile. "We will be shape-shifting into different forms. You need to copy us as closely as you can. If I become a hound, you will become a hound. If I become a wren, you will become a wren."

"Simple enough," he admitted, wondering what the catch was.

The second drake, the alto, chuckled. "What, Coren, don't you trust us? I'm wounded."

"He's wise not to," the first pointed out. "As you guessed, we will be creating some small obstacles for you to overcome. You need to keep us in your sight if you want to learn your next form."

Alfred winced, thought of all the 'distractions' his tutors could create. They were just as powerful as their dragon-snake cousins, though their magic wouldn't try to kill him. "What kinds of distractions?"

The third drake beamed at him. "Why, Master Montbank, we were just waiting for you to ask!" Its answer was a signal to the others. Their shapes rippled, altered. One donned squirrel form, shooting off into the trees. Another became a fire-furred vixen, darting through the undergrowth. The third leapt into the air, a swan.

"But which of you am I supposed to follow?"

No answer.

Alfred groaned, sang the runes that would make him a swan. He reasoned that if he could spot them from the air, then it would be much harder to lose them again.

That was when the drakes enacted the first of their distractions. Ropes coiled around him, binding his wings. Acting on instinct, he altered his form to that of a dog fox. The ropes tightened, refused to let him go.

All right, then. The fox pictured a blazing blue rune-structure, barked a single note. The spell flared to life around him, dissolving the bindings, freeing him.

Casting spells in beast form was so much quicker, though not easier, than casting them as a Sartan. Animals didn't need to (and indeed frequently couldn't) sing and dance; they just had to picture the runes and add magic. The trick was visualizing the entire rune-structure, dozens if not hundreds of perfectly formed marks, at once. For some reason, everyone else seemed to find the concept rather difficult, but Alfred was quite capable of it. It took him a lot more mental effort and would fall apart if he formed even one line incorrectly, not to mention that it felt so strange and unnatural and the spells weren't quite as powerful, but the speed more than made up for the difficulty.

The ropes dissolved as though they'd never existed in the first place. The dog fox landed lightly on his large paws, swiveled his ears around, searching for one of the drakes.

Then the squirrel-drake solved his problem by throwing an acorn at the fox's head. Its aim was true; Alfred, surprised at being hit, looked up towards the missile's source. The squirrel waved before launching another acorn.

All right, that was just offensive.

The dog fox barked with irritation, loped toward the tree. The tree splintered right down its middle. Alfred changed shapes again. A slender squirrel latched onto the shaking tree. The shape-shifter closed his eyes for a moment, focused on another rune-structure, and the tree was healed. When he opened his eyes, though, the drake-squirrel was gone.

"_Hello? Could someone please show me what I'm supposed to do next?_"

The world went black. The squirrel leapt nearly out of his skin. How in the name of the Sundering was he supposed to find his next form if he couldn't see it? Annoyed, he reached for his magic, cast a spell to undo the darkness.

The drakes fought back, refusing to let his spell take hold. Alfred scowled, increased the pressure on his end. The darkness lightened a tad before the drakes brought it back full force.

Why were they doing this? They'd said they wanted him to shape-shift, not use his magic for a dozen different things at the drop of a hat. They weren't even giving him time to think!

Oh. That was it. They reasoned that if he thought, he would realize just how much power it took to shift so often, to undo their spells. They were trying to distract him, to make him use his gifts to their greatest extent without realizing it.

…and of course he'd inadvertently thwarted them by figuring their plan out. Of _course_ he had.

But, he supposed, as long as he kept going, kept using his magic—even consciously—the exercise had to have some merit.

The darkness had strengthened while he was thinking. Alfred frowned, the expression ridiculous on his borrowed face, and pushed back. The darkness shattered, let the light through.

He scurried up his tree, searching for the next drake. A hoot rewarded him; he turned and saw an owl just before the tree melted beneath his paws.

Fix the tree, leap into the air in bird-shape. Winds tore at his feathers, jostling him, but a quick spell calmed the skies. The owl became a bat, a mouse, a wolf, a serpent. Spells assailed him—rain, undergrowth, dizziness—but he had magic of his own. He unmade every spell, reshaped every shattered tree and stone, followed every beast and bird.

He actually began to enjoy himself, near the end.

"That's enough," announced the second drake. It had reverted to its humanoid form, a slender elf-maid. The others, young and beautiful men, stepped into the forest glade. They, too, were smiling. "Feel free to change back, Coren."

The Sartan did so. A thin sheen of sweat matted his forehead, but he was grinning even more widely than the other shape-shifters.

The drake's eyes went wide. "Well," it exclaimed, surprised, "it seems you have surprises even for my kind."

Alfred blinked at it.

The creature chuckled. "You're in your true form, all right, but it's not the one we all know and love. Feel your head."

He obeyed. His hands ran through a great deal more hair than was supposed to be there. Startled, Alfred continued feeling around for his bald spot. He didn't find it.

"You seem to have accidentally invoked the possibility that you didn't age during the stasis sleep," another drake noted.

Alfred groaned. He really needed to quit casting spells by accident. He willed himself back to his ordinary form, felt the bald spot reappear.

The drakes laughed, blue-green eyes glittering. Their bodies were strong sleek, despite the magic they'd expended for Alfred's lesson.

"What do you think?" the female asked.

Exhaustion rolled over Alfred in a wave. He slumped, nearly fell, then grit his teeth. No. He was just being an idiot again. It was all in his head. Hopefully. The Sartan grabbed a nearby tree (one of the many which had nearly perished the drakes' assault) until the dizziness passed.

Cool hands wiped his brow, wicked the sweat away. Blue-green eyes filled with sympathy crinkled in a smile. "I think you did quite well," the female continued.

"If you say so." Alfred leaned against the tree, afraid of another episode. "But I'm afraid I figured out what you were doing. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," ordered one of the males, a pseudo-human. "You continued on, did you not?"

"I suppose."

"Then you performed above and beyond what we asked of you," the not-quite-human informed him. "And we asked quite a bit of you, Master Montbank." It nodded, a smug smile on its face. "Oh, yes. You will go far."

Alfred forced a smile of his own, wishing that he'd gone farther earlier, that he didn't need this training, that he'd been able to do more in the past. Perhaps, if his people had known about, had used his power, then….

"But you have no way of knowing," the other male said, nicely derailing his gloomy line of thought. "You must stop living in the past. Learn from it, yes. Live in it, no. Do you understand, Coren?" It took hold of his wrist, a delicate but strong hand clasping the end of a skinny, knobby arm. Its eyes, blue-green as Pryan's jungles, as Chelestra's seawater, held the universe within. "Do you understand?"

"I will try to." This time, Alfred's smile was genuine, though filled with sorrow. "I know you probably wanted more-"

"Not really." The drake shook its head. "You will understand in your own time. We cannot force you to grow, only help you. Now, should we make a schedule for our next few lessons?"

Alfred winced at the thought of more lessons, then winced again once he'd realized what he had done. No, no, he told himself, these are good. Remember how nice it felt to experiment with different forms? Remember the joy, the completion of all that magic singing in your veins? His expression softened into contentment. Oh, he remembered.

"Master Montbank," the drake called softly.

Alfred blushed, remembering that oh, yes, he'd been asked a question. "Perhaps we could discuss that on the way back to the city? I feel a bit guilty about letting Haplo and Marit watch the children so much."

"They don't mind, you know," commented the first drake, the one in human form. It turned, began walking, presumably towards the city proper. Alfred didn't know for certain—he'd gotten all turned around during his lesson and couldn't see any towers through the trees. But he trusted that the drakes had their own ways of knowing these things, that they could get him back home. He followed. "And they don't have quite the same views of child-rearing that you do. In the Labyrinth, children are trained quickly not to wander off or get into trouble."

The Sartan sighed softly. "I know, though I don't like it at all."

The drake returned his sigh. "Nor do we, but what is, is. You and your friends have already made a great deal of progress with your Run. Don't be surprised if the teardrop you've dripped into the Wave makes ripples."

"What does that mean?"

"You'll see. Now, how often do you want to have your lessons?"

Alfred hadn't thought about it. He slowed slightly, nearly walked into a tree. Avoiding the tree (though only barely), the Sartan suggested, "Perhaps every day or so for a few hours at a time? That way I can spend time helping Haplo and Marit with the children." And the more they were exposed to him, a friendly Sartan, the better. They desperately needed some positive contact with his people. Why, just that morning he'd tried to make them a special breakfast delicacy from Arianus and they had checked it for poison! Okay, so they were probably justified in their worry, but still. It hurt, and the sooner Alfred made them realize that he wanted them alive, not dead, the happier they all would be.

He and the drakes eventually settled on once every two days at mid-morning. They (or some of their brethren) would meet him at the gates of the city. If necessary, they would all go somewhere else—a spring, the Final Gate, the heart of the Nexus. The lesson would take until lunchtime, when Alfred would rejoin his friends and the children.

"Oh," added the female, just as the four shape-shifters arrived at the orphanage, "bring Haplo next time."

"What? Why?"

But the drakes were gone.

* * *

Constin is fun to write. He's a bit like Haplo (I think that most Patryns are) in that he's very practical and doesn't put up with nonsense. And it's fun to see him interact with Alfred, even if it's only in a dream. Or _is_ it only in a dream?

Hugh's for-realsies death in Book 7 always annoyed me. The whole point of his presence was the fact that he couldn't die, and then he just _does?_ My justification: Alfred did something to him on their ride to Abarrach that enabled him to die. It makes more sense than what the authors came up with. Maybe one day I'll write that scene.

So Haplo gets to attend Alfred's lesson next time. Yay? But the lesson must inevitably involve the supremely awesome friendship/dragons combo, so that's good. And so is the momentary appearance of my patented young!Alfred.

Happy New Year!

-Antares


	3. Insight

"…Alfred?"

"Yes, Haplo?" His friend didn't say the words. He whispered them.

"Are you all right? You look ready to cry."

Which prompted a dialogue of despair on how, in the name of the Sundering, were his people unable to tell the difference between a flight-rune and a food-rune; and he didn't have time to answer fifty thousand questions per session, that was why there would be other lessons; and he flatly refused to talk about what he'd done to Hugh; and how many demonstrations of his dragon form did they really need to see—couldn't they see how uncomfortable he was when they kept bullying him into shape-shifting again and again and again?

"The lesson was a disaster, I take it," Haplo observed. And not just the lesson. Alfred had taught bad lessons before, but they'd never affected him like this.

Alfred moaned, flung himself into a chair. "Why did I agree to this, Haplo? And why in all the worlds did I decide to hold a question-and-answer session today?"

"I think you just like to martyr yourself." Haplo leaned against the wall, head cocked to the side.

"That must be it," Alfred grumbled.

Haplo raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth. Alfred cut him off by exclaiming, "Did I mention that one of them tried to steal some of my scales?"

"No."

"They tried to steal my scales!" he cried, flinging his arms up into the air. "How in all the worlds would ripping off part of my body help them learn magic?"

Haplo shrugged.

"I hate this," Alfred continued. "Perhaps I should just quit-"

Haplo's eyebrow climbed farther into his hairline. "Really?"

The Sartan flushed. "Perhaps it would be better. You and Marit are much better suited for this," he said softly, no longer pretending that the lesson was the source of his unhappiness. He didn't name the real source out loud, though. Haplo knew.

"Give them time, Coren." Haplo wished he could say something else, something less like a platitude, but advice became platitudes when it worked.

Alfred allowed himself to sulk for a minute more before forcing his sorrow aside. "Yes, I suppose I've learned my lesson. No more question-and-answer lessons." He nodded firmly.

Haplo laughed, a rich, warm sound that made Alfred smile despite his lingering unhappiness. "So what will you teach them next time? Your students, obviously, not the children."

"Flight, I think," the Sartan replied. "There are a couple of theoretical concepts that flying could help me explain, and it's quite practical." He had learned the hard way not to give purely theoretical lessons. He had tried to do so once and had been rewarded by a series of blank stares.

"You ever going to teach them battle magic?"

Alfred winced as spells flooded his mind. He'd invented several of those incantations himself during their Run into the Labyrinth. "Perhaps," he sighed. "It _is_ something that we have to learn now. But not for a while. I don't have any memories of my own lessons to draw on with regards to battle magic."

"Wait." Haplo frowned at him. "You never had any lessons about battle?"

"Of course not." Alfred seemed surprised by the very thought. "Why would I have needed to learn anything like that?"

Haplo stared at him, wondered if he should point out the obvious fact that Alfred was pretty dang good for someone who'd never had any formal training in that particular branch of magic. He decided not to mention anything—this really wasn't that much of a surprise. Or at least it shouldn't be. Alfred had never had necromancy lessons either.

"But these ones do," the Sartan considered, voice saturated with sorrow. "We are in danger here—not imminent, but still present. If the dragon-snakes attack, or if the rebels among your people or mine invade, they will need to know how to defend themselves." He sighed, the air rattling in his chest, in his throat.

Haplo chuckled softly. "Or they could just let you at them."

Alfred turned a truly remarkable shade of red.

The only child in the room, a ten-year-old boy named Tset, snorted. He had been passing through on his way to the outside world, pointedly ignoring Alfred until Haplo had made such an absurd comment.

"He's driven off an army before," Haplo pointed out. His words conjured up fantastic pictures of a beach, of a fallen mountain, of red eyes staring balefully at the green and golden dragon hovering before them.

Tset hesitated. On the one hand, he'd always loved stories, and this sounded like a good one. On the other, it was a story about a Sartan. Stories he loved, but not Sartan.

"And that was after-"

Alfred erupted into a suspiciously convenient coughing fit that cut off Haplo's next words. The Patryn rolled his eyes. "All right," he drawled, "I won't tell the story of how you singlehandedly drove off Samah himself."

"What?" squawked the boy.

"Saved my life, too," Haplo added blandly, ignoring Alfred's warning glare.

"Haplo-"

Tset took a step towards them, stopped, took another step. Not looking at Alfred, he mumbled, "How did that happen?"

"Alfred could tell it better than I could," Haplo said. Alfred shook his crimson head. No, he could not tell stories better than Haplo. Especially not this story.

"No he couldn't. And I want you to tell me, Haplo. Not him."

…Patryn children were a brutally honest lot.

"And I want him to tell you, Tset. Not me." Haplo had been a Patryn child at one point. He still remembered how to play their games.

"Haplo, that's really not-" The Patryn laid a hand on the Sartan's shoulder.

Tset bit his lip. He looked from Alfred to Haplo and back again. Finally, grudgingly, he ordered, "Tell me."

"Tell you?"

"Yeah." He nodded, a sharp, jerky motion. "How in the worlds did you end up fighting Samah?"

"Well…." Alfred tilted his head aside. He looked back at Haplo, who was smiling quietly. Gaining confidence, the Sartan continued, "It was when we were on the World of Water, Chelestra…."

Haplo slipped away halfway through the story, once Tset's guard fell and he half-forgot that the man telling him this tale was a Sartan. The Patryn man walked out the door, into the yard, which Marit and most of the other children were turning into a garden. His wife saw his good mood, raised an eyebrow in question. Haplo just smiled, shook his head. I'll tell you later, he mouthed. Then, aloud, "Need help?"

"Where should we put the cherry tree?"

They were planting their garden the old-fashioned way, without magic. It was good, hard, honest work. Haplo enjoyed it: the camaraderie, the dirt staining his hands, the children's smiles, the scent of rich warm earth. The soil of the Nexus was dark and moist, almost black, perfect for the mass production of food. His people didn't need to grow crops in large quantities—they had replication spells for things like that—but it wasn't right to rely on magic for everything. Besides, the children seemed to enjoy marking this land as their own. And, if he was completely honest, so did he.

Alfred and Tset trotted out of the house. Together. The Patryn boy stiffened a bit at the sight of his fellow children, hesitated. Alfred paused. He didn't want to get in the way of previously formed bonds. Then, with a tiny half-shrug, Tset continued into the garden. Alfred remained behind, but not for long. "Aren't you coming?" Tset called irritably.

"Okay." Conscious of the other children's eyes on him, the Sartan stepped outside. He took in the layout of the garden, saw no empty spaces here. "Does anyone mind if I plant some fruit trees native to Arianus in the backyard?"

"Yes," snapped Lotto, the most hostile of all the boys. "They're probably poisonous." A couple other children (though not, the adults were pleased to see, Tset) nodded vigorously.

"Oh. All right then." Alfred struggled to hold back his crestfallen expression.

Haplo's heart went out to him. His poor friend was trying so hard, but…. He remembered his own reaction to learning that the weirdo called Alfred was a Sartan, remembered his hatred and disgust. It had taken them (well, okay, mostly him. Alfred had trouble hating anybody and had come around almost immediately after their first shared trip through Death's Gate) a long, long time and many near-death experiences to start liking each other. It was different for the children. Alfred had helped save their lives, yes, but he'd had help of his own, and he was a _Sartan._ He was probably just luring them into a false sense of security. Then he'd throw them back into the Labyrinth or do something equally horrible. And even if he didn't do anything in the future, his people's past crimes were more than enough to condemn him.

"Alfred. Plant the trees."

"Are you certain, Haplo?"

"Plant them. Want help?"

"No thank you." A soft, sad smile. "Stay with the children."

"They seem fine to me," Marit observed. There was a tiny frown on her face, a hint of shame in her bearing. She remembered her own initial reaction to the powerful Sartan who had saved her life by putting his foot in Death's Gate. "Think you can handle yourselves in the front yard when we're in the back, kids?"

Nods all around. Only Lotto had something to say. "But will you two be all right out back with the Sartan?"

Haplo shot a glare at the boy. Lotto fell sullenly silent—but he came with them into the backyard, hand twitching towards his dagger.

The Sartan straightened out, his gangly body becoming graceful and elegant. For a moment, he stood there with his arms upraised. Then softly, sadly, he began to sing.

A chill broke out over Haplo's skin. His runes flickered in response to the magic. The song—the dirge, a lament mourning the hatred of those who should have loved—seeped inside him, into his heart, made his eyes water. Something inside him twisted into a knot.

Alfred's hands traced the runes in the air, made glowing blue lines that shaped into pure magic. His song rose, touched the possibilities, shaped them into realities. The possibilities shivered into being.

Plants that had never before lived in the Nexus's soil sprouted, grew, flourished. Mostly trees, but with vegetable crops hidden in their roots, with vines creeping along the ground. Haplo recognized a few of the plants, but most were unfamiliar to him. It rained fairly often in the Labyrinth, creating mud and misery, but Arianus was an enormous desert. Of course they ate different things there, grew different crops.

The Sartan relaxed. Some of the sorrow had lifted from his face. Magic always did that to him. He'd tried to explain it to Haplo and Marit, tried to make them understand the bliss of song in his blood, but though they too tried, neither really could understand. It was the kind of thing one had to experience to comprehend, and they had never experienced the connection between a serpent mage and his magic.

Haplo thought of another garden the Sartan had created, a secret hargast grove that only he and Alfred himself knew about. He wouldn't be surprised if Alfred went there today, went to confide in the trees. He didn't like to 'bother' his friends with his problems, but had no qualms about talking to plants.

Sure enough, Alfred slipped away while the children were going through his part of the garden, seeing how many of the plants were native to the Labyrinth as well (not many) and how many were unfamiliar and therefore potentially dangerous. Haplo sighed. Really, when would they learn that Alfred had no intention of poisoning them? Though if the Sartan had served him food back on Abarrach, he probably would have done the same. The thought depressed him.

They went inside after that, spent the rest of the afternoon telling stories and describing what the rest of the Nexus was like. Alfred slipped in just before supper, entering a room full of staring eyes. He settled himself in the corner, let the children grow accustomed to his quiet presence. Eventually they stopped glancing at him, though, Haplo reflected miserably, probably because they had remembered their warning runes.

Later that night, once the children were ready to go to sleep, Alfred finally managed to approach Haplo. "Would you mind attending my lesson tomorrow?"

"What for?" Marit asked from the other side of the room.

"The drakes requested his presence at tomorrow's class," he explained.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, actually. They disappeared before I could ask."

Haplo shrugged back. It wasn't like the drakes would have Alfred hurt him—nor would Alfred hurt him even if asked. Had he been in a more contemplative mood, he might have thought about how strange it was that he trusted the older man so much, how strange it was that he didn't even think about his assumption of safety. He might have imagined his younger self's reaction to the trust between them, a Patryn and a Sartan man, and smiled in quiet amusement. But he was focused on other things, like why the drakes wanted him to attend Alfred's lesson. He could think of many reasons they would want him there but didn't know which one was accurate.

"Well, I suppose we'll find out tomorrow."

"I suppose we will."

Haplo yawned after that, his jaw cracking. "Off to bed with you," Alfred ordered, as fussy as a mother hen. Haplo rolled his eyes, much to Marit's amusement, made a few good-natured protests as he, his soul mate, and the Sartan went into their respective rooms.

Alfred watched his friends close the door before slipping into his own chamber. He had been tired earlier, but no longer. His heart thudded with anticipation, sending adrenaline and excitement through his veins.

He really shouldn't do this. He should sleep. The books would be there tomorrow—but they were there right now, and they were the _original copies!_

No, no. He had a busy day coming up tomorrow. He needed to sleep. So what if Constin's journals—the original copies!—were lying just a few feet away from him, tempting him with their very presence? The original—come to think of it, why had Headman Vasu sent him the _original _copies instead of a set of duplicates? But, he admitted to himself, he didn't particularly care why, just that the original copies of the journals of the only other serpent mage in recorded history were _right there_, just an arm's length away from him, filled with amazing magical theory and—

Oh, hell with it. Surely it wouldn't take that long to read just the first book, right? He'd always been a fast reader.

Alfred deposited himself into his desk chair, reverently opened the first of the books. It was old, obviously—nine hundred years old—but in pristine condition. He didn't know if that was because of Constin's magic, someone else's magic, or an excellent preserver, but that didn't matter. The book might as well be just a few days old, the ink still wet.

_This being the record of Constin Mezzai of Abri, Serpent Mage, book the first…._

What followed was an absolutely fascinating discourse on the spells he'd used to ward Abri's walls and the incantations he had utilized to make the Labyrinth supply power for those wards. Alfred, reading through it, was shocked at how similar the theoretical concepts behind Sartan and Patryn magic were. The similarities were just as intriguing as the spells themselves—and yet he couldn't help but be a little disappointed. The theory, the magic, was incredible, and if anyone else had written it, he would have entered paroxysms of joy, but…. He could learn about theory anytime, from anyone. He wanted to learn not just about Constin's magic, but about the man himself. What was he like? Vasu had called him arrogant, but Alfred knew nothing else about his personality. How did he handle the demands of his station? How would he have handled the problems facing the Nexus today? What other lessons did he have to teach that weren't explicitly written down?

Fortunately, the exposition on Abri's walls didn't take up the entirety of the book. In the last few pages, Alfred found the following passage:

_Headwoman Isin believes that I am a fool for not cutting a path of blood through the Labyrinth, for not bringing all our people to the safety of the Nexus. Perhaps she's right. Perhaps I am a fool—or perhaps she is wrong, and I am not a fool, and the Labyrinth would kill every other Patryn within its power if I led an exodus from Abri. Well, not every other Patryn. It is a cunning enemy, a good planner. It would know better than to kill off all its playthings, for what would it torment then? But if it massacred a thousand of my people, two thousand, three, then that is too great a cost. No. Better to protect those I can as best I can, and to silence the niggling doubts that assail me._

Alfred's gut twisted. A massacre… had that happened? Had the Labyrinth really killed dozens, hundreds, thousands of Patryns in retaliation for the Battle of Abri? Alfred had the nasty feeling that it had.

But what could he have done? Sit aside, let the dragon-snakes and their brethren conquer the fortress of rock, let these people die to save others? No, he could not have done that—and he was right to not do such a thing, right to protect those he could.

_Ah, those doubts…. I would speak more of them, but I have no desire to infect others with my inner weakness. Just know this, my readers, my people: I have no intention of letting those doubts unman me. I will not be paralyzed by fear. Inner weakness will not become outer. Serpents are tenacious, versatile creatures—can they not climb trees, renew themselves time and time again, slither through the earth, even bite and poison their foes after dying? No wonder, then, that their name is given to one with the power—and, I swear to you all!—the intention to protect the Patryn race. _

Alfred swallowed hard, touched the words of his predecessor. _I have no intention of letting those doubts unman me. I will not be paralyzed by fear…._

The Sartan shivered. It was as though Constin were speaking directly to him, his words echoing through the centuries. _You're the Serpent Mage, aren't you? Then start acting like one!_

A tiny smile graced the Sartan's face. "I wish I'd met you," he sighed.

Perhaps, if he was lucky, he would see the other mage in his dreams that night. It wouldn't be Constin Mezzai of Abri, not truly, but the dream-man would nonetheless be a comfort to him.

But Constin did not appear to him when he finally fell asleep. He didn't dream at all; he was too exhausted after staying up too long reading Constin's first journal. But that wasn't a bad thing. Dreamless sleep was the deepest, and he awoke fully refreshed for the day's lesson.

The children were a bit politer to him, especially Tset, though Lotto still barely deigned to remain in the same room as an ancestral enemy. Alfred tried to ignore his melancholy over the latter's snub, to focus on Tset's relative friendliness, but failed miserably. By the time he and Haplo went off for his lesson, he had more than half-convinced himself that the children would always hate him. And no wonder! He was a Sartan, an enemy, and a powerful one, too.

"They'll come around," Haplo tried to assure him, patting his friend's shoulder. "They didn't check for poison in their food this morning."

"Because they saw me eating it."

Haplo hadn't realized that. He winced, remembered what they'd done to Alfred's plants yesterday. He probably didn't need to know about that. "Ah. But the point remains, my friend. They'll come around."

"I hope so." A pause. "Ah. Here we are."

Sure enough, a single drake was waiting for them at the gate of the city. It wore its natural form, a behemoth of shining teal scales, the color broken only by black pupils and ivory teeth that flashed as it smiled. "Hello Haplo, Master Montbank."

They exchanged pleasantries as the drake, now in the form of a human man, led them out into the forest. "We'll need some space for this," it announced.

Alfred looked very suspicious.

"What're we doing?" Haplo asked. He wasn't half as suspicious as his friend, but it would be pretty nice to know.

"I'll tell you once we're there."

Alfred frowned. "Why not now?" he asked, a hint of warning in his tone.

"It's rather like what you did two days ago, but with Haplo as well."

Alfred's eyes went wide. "Isn't that a bit dangerous?" He'd nearly been struck with lightning once. Haplo might be protected by his runes, but there was no way he would let his dearest friend risk hurting himself.

"We won't risk your friend, Master Montbank," the drake vowed. "You're lucky—this is a much simpler exercise than the one you started out with. All you will have to do is to transform yourself and Haplo into whatever animal I become."

The Sartan stopped dead in his tracks. "You want me to use magic on Haplo?" His tone implied that this was just as heinous as eating babies or throwing puppies off of cliffs.

"It's not anything dangerous," the dragon assured him.

"But still." Alfred's eyes narrowed. For a moment, it didn't seem at all that unlikely that this mild, gentle man could transform himself into the most magnificent and deadly dragon in the seven worlds. "Is there some reason that you didn't tell me that I was expected to perform spells on my friend?" His hackles raised, eyes narrowed. There was a hint of draconic growl in his voice, in his warning. The dragons of Arianus were famously protective, and the man who could take their shape shared that particular characteristic.

The drake had not expected such a reaction from Alfred of all people. "I'm not asking you to transform him into a slug, Master Montbank. I promise to stick with dignified animals."

Alfred considered, glanced over at Haplo. The Patryn shrugged. He _was_ a bit curious about what it felt like to be a dragon, a leopard, or any of the other beasts his friend had been enthusing about for the past two days. "I assume that the point of this exercise is to make him more comfortable with casting spells on others?"

"I am," the Sartan huffed. "You saw me in the Labyrinth, Haplo." His words conjured images of chaodyns, snogs, even a Labyrinth dragon. "I cast spells on them."

"Yes," the drake acknowledged, "you cast spells on other living creatures, on your enemies. But there is more to magic than death."

"I know this." Alfred didn't understand.

"Is there any reason that you should not cast spells on a friend?"

"Remember what you said about breaking down barriers?" Haplo murmured.

Alfred chewed his lip, still hesitant.

"We're here," the drake-turned-human announced. "Let the lesson begin." Its form rippled, shrank. Feathers sprouted from its form. The nose and mouth pushed together, pushed out, became a beak. Moments after the transformation began, a hawk stood in its place.

Alfred put his foot down. "I'd rather not do this to Haplo."

"Perhaps one of the children instead, then?" the hawk suggested. Its beak didn't move; it projected its sarcastic words directly into their minds.

"No!"

"Then why not Haplo?"

"I don't mind," the Patryn assured him.

Alfred was still torn. "You're absolutely…."

Haplo nodded. "Positive."

"All right." The Sartan still seemed doubtful, but he was at least willing to play along. "But you'll let me know if you change your mind, right?"

"Of course." He smiled slightly, nodded.

"If you insist." He backed up, face still filled with concern, and began to sing. His song was just as hesitant as his earlier worlds, his dance less enthusiastic than usual.

The experience of becoming a hawk was strange. One second he was himself, a tall, strong man all covered in blue runes. Then he was a hawk. The world became big and bright. His senses expanded, his sight and hearing sharper than ever before, his sense of smell a bit less powerful. It was harder to balance—his feet had become talons, which were not as easy to stand on as what he was used to. His arms snapped out in an attempt to regain his balance, but they weren't arms—they were wings. He fluttered, hopping back and forth. Then hands grabbed him round the chest, steadied him. "Are you all right?" asked Alfred, alarmed.

Haplo extended his talons, his wings. Alfred's warm hands kept him from falling. "You're all right?"

The Patryn-turned-hawk jerked his head in a single nod. It was strange to see his friend like this. Alfred had always been taller than him (though the Sartan's slouched posture minimized the height difference between them), but now Haplo was just a foot or so high. Alfred was easily six times his height, his hands big enough to crush the bird.

"Can I let you go now?"

Haplo nodded again. Alfred scooted back a few feet, watched nervously in case his friend fell. The hawk remained on his feet. He cawed impatiently.

Alfred smiled. "Of course. I'm coming." His song this time was rather more enthusiastic, though still not as much as he usually was. Moments later, another hawk (a different, slightly larger breed than Haplo had become) stood in his place. Miraculously, the second bird didn't fall; his balance was impeccable. "You're certain you still want to do this?"

Haplo didn't bother asking how they could understand each other. They might not be the same species, but they were close enough to communicate. "Of course. But how did you manage not to fall over?"

The hawk's eyes glittered with laughter. "I don't know. It just happens."

"Incredible," Haplo muttered. "You can't walk straight in your birth form, but you can hop around on these feet just fine." He tried to lift one of his own scrawny bird legs, nearly fell over, therefore proving how unusual Alfred's feat was. "And how the devil did you learn how to fly in your dragon form so quickly?"

"Necessity," the larger bird replied, ducking his head. Had he been in his Sartan body, his cheeks would have been burning. "I've always been best at learning under pressure."

The original hawk, the one with unnatural blue-green eyes instead of the more normal gold, cleared its throat. The other shape-shifters started (Haplo was pleased to note that his feet didn't fail him again), embarrassed.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" teased the drake.

"I suppose not," Alfred admitted grudgingly. "But I maintain that you could have given me a warning—not to mention a warning for Haplo."

"A warning for me?" the Patryn asked.

"So you could choose beforehand," Alfred explained.

Haplo rolled his eyes.

The creature shape-shifted again, feathers melting into scales. Now a lizard stood in its place. "I won't ask you to take Haplo for flying lessons," it teased. "At least not yet."

The older hawk looked long and hard at his friend. Haplo stood there, feathers involuntarily fluffing in and out. "Did you want to become a lizard too, Haplo?"

"Are you going to ask me every time you're supposed to change my shape?" the Patryn-turned-bird asked. Alfred opened his beak, but Haplo cut him off. "Don't say anything. Alfred, you don't have to do that."

"But you will let me know if you change your mind?"

Haplo rolled his eyes again. "Yes, my friend. I'll let you know. Now turn me into a lizard already."

Moments later, he had shrunk down even further. His senses had diminished, but his vision had widened. It was easy to make out things on the periphery, harder to perceive depth. His balance was better, though, as long as he remained on four feet. He doubted that he could stay upright if he tried to stand on two legs.

"This like your dragon form?" he asked the other reptile.

"Not particularly," Alfred admitted. "My dragon form is a bit more… um…." His tail twitched.

"Impressive?"

"That too. I was thinking more like enjoyable. It is my favorite so far."

"We'll save that for last, then, shan't we?" suggested the drake, morphing into a cougar.

This lesson was more relaxed than his last one. He and Haplo had enough time for a minute or so of conversation between each shift. They became tigers, gazelles, hounds, everything but pigs and aquatic animals (or so it seemed).

Finally, when Alfred (now a quetzal) had begun to pant a bit with exertion, the drake shifted into its natural form. It towered over the Sartan- and Patryn-turned-birds, scales glittering, eyes just as bright. "Time for your favorite, Master Montbank," it said.

The slightly larger quetzal turned to the slightly smaller. "Which breed?" he asked.

"Breed?" asked the other bird, amused.

"Of course." The older quetzal bobbed his head. "There's quicksilver, warmonger, p-"

"Alfred."

The quetzal tried to grin sheepishly. Not having lips, he failed in that particular endeavor, but something in his eyes implied embarrassment. "Shall I just make it up, then?"

"Please."

"All right."

Haplo grew, his body and limbs straightening out. His senses sharpened again: wolf's nose, hawk's eyes, bat's ears. Fire burned in his belly, flame and power and magic. He was big and powerful, sleek and strong, and he could see why this was Alfred's favorite form.

An elegant green head snaked toward him. "_What do you think, Haplo?"_

Haplo's tail flicked. His wings opened, he turned his head toward them. They were a deep ochre color with hints of bronze and amber. His body was covered in scales of the same general hues. They glinted in the sunlight, made him a living statue of copper and brass and gold. _"I like it,"_ he said, thrilling at the strength in his new body. He smiled, feeling his lips glide over fangs.

"_Good."_ The green and golden dragon nodded firmly. His wings were folded close to his sides, but his crests relaxed at Haplo's answer. He'd been worried about that, it seemed. _"Would you like to learn how to fly?_"

Haplo experimentally extended his wings. He could feel their power, their flexibility. _"All right. Teach me, Coren."_

The green dragon beamed at him, shining more brightly than before. "_Of course, my friend."_ His crests flicked back against his skull. His wings spread, bright sheets of gold. "_But first we need to find a plain. It will be easier for you to get into the air if you can get a running start."_

And so Haplo found himself following his closest friend and a drake through the forest until they found a clearing that Alfred deemed large enough. As he walked, he reflected on how anyone in the Labyrinth (or even many people who had escaped it) would react to the thought of following a dragon anywhere. In Abri, he decided, they would have thrown him into a time well until his sickness was gone. In the rest of the Labyrinth, they would have gotten as far away from him as possible, preferably before his insanity infected them. But here in the Nexus, it was perfectly fine for him to follow the green and teal dragons. He could trust them. All in all, it was quite an improvement.

Much to his surprise, flying was fairly easy. His new body came complete with instincts and reflexes, and Alfred was a good teacher when he felt like it (and when he didn't invite a large group of diverse students to engage him in a question-and-answer free-for-all). Soon he was swooping up and down in the air, carried by invisible currents of heat and cold, his blood filled with heady joy. No wonder Alfred liked this form so much—it was wonderful.

"_Enjoying yourself?" _the green dragon teased before dropping into a steep dive. Haplo folded his wings, followed. Wind whistled in his ears, across his scales. It drew back the corners of his mouth, made him grin. Though of course the wind wasn't the only reason for his smile. Oh, he did enjoy this. It even made up for being turned into a goldfinch.

The other dragon tilted slightly before flaring his wings out with a sharp snapping noise. Haplo dove a few more feet before opening his own wings. Pain spiked in his shoulders. His muscles faltered, strained. He managed to pull himself up, to keep himself off the ground, but only barely.

"_Haplo?_" Alfred circled above him. _"Are you all right?"_

"_I'm fine,"_ his friend shot back, ignoring the ache in his wings. "_But I need to get down now."_ He seemed to have torn something and didn't want to keep flying on injured wings. No need to risk falling to his death if his wings gave out.

"_All right. Go into a very, very gentle dive. You can turn at a slight angle to maneuver into a better landing place and to minimize your momentum, but don't overdo it."_

Haplo deferred to his friend's expertise, dropping slowly to the plain from which they'd taken off. The green dragon hovered above him, wings thudding like drumbeats, watched as his friend stopped. Haplo caught a brief whiff of magic before his form altered and he found himself a Patryn man once again.

Alfred folded his wings, landed on the ground. The earth shuddered slightly beneath his weight. Haplo shifted, one eyebrow raised. No gentle dives and minimizing momentum for this dragon.

Now a Sartan once again, Alfred trotted towards his friend. "Are you all right?" he fussed. "It looked like you hurt yourself."

Haplo rubbed his injured shoulder. The ache had diminished some, but it was still present. "I'll be fine. Healing sleep, remember?" He grinned. "Not that I mind. You're right, Coren. Flying is…."

Alfred grinned back. The expression made him look younger, softened the lines of his face. "I know," he laughed.

"I just don't understand how you managed to lift the Royal One your first time in dragon form." Haplo shook his head, quietly amazed.

"Magic," he answered promptly. "I used magic to reinforce my wings. Also, you and I are different breeds. Mine was built for battle, for lifting heavy things and turning aside at the last second. Yours was simply for the joy of being a dragon."

"The joy of being a dragon?" Haplo echoed, lips twitching.

Alfred flushed. "Yes. I think you know what I mean."

"I do."

They discussed shapes and flying on their trek back to the city. Alfred enthused about the different flight techniques he was trying out (some of them sounded rather dangerous to Haplo, and he had difficulty believing that his friend would actually go through with them. When he mentioned that, though, the Sartan pointed out that he could use magic as a safety net if something went wrong, and he wouldn't do all the craziest moves right away. He'd work up to them, so he'd be safe. Really.), Haplo related a few memories of the dog's. When they got back, they were debating the merits of letting the children shape-shift. Alfred thought it was a horrible idea—they don't trust me enough yet, they'll think I'm trying to leave them in beast form forever. Haplo thought that it had potential—or it would once they stopped checking the Sartan's culinary offerings for poison.

"He's not dead!"

Alfred jumped at the sudden voice. He landed wrong, collapsing face-first. Haplo dropped into an instinctive crouch, one hand grabbing at his sword.

"Haplo's back!" Rue called again. "And he's not dead!" The girl had been standing on a street corner peering out into the city in search of the older Patryn. When she called out the good news, she turned back toward the house, started jogging in that direction. "The Sartan didn't kill him!"

Alfred, who had been picking himself up from the ground, froze. He stared at the dirt beneath his hands, face full of pain.

Haplo squatted down next to him, heart twisting with pity. "Coren-"

"I know, Haplo." A strained, unhappy smile. "But you see why I don't want to change their forms, don't you? Who knows what the children would think of it?" He pushed himself to his feet, wiped the dirt from his hands and knees, but didn't meet the Patryn's concerned gaze.

"I wish I could help, my friend."

"I know." If there was a bit of a waver in Alfred's voice, Haplo pretended not to notice. "Are you hungry?"

Haplo knew better than to try and get anything out of the Sartan now. "A bit," he admitted, going along with the farce. "You think Marit's made anything, or are we just having leftovers?"

Their conversation remained trivial, inane, on the way back to the home. Opening the door, they were greeted by a small swarm of children. Well, Haplo was greeted by a small swarm of children. They didn't really do much about Alfred except acknowledge his existence, though Tset did give him a little nod before turning his attention to the Patryn man.

"As you can see," Haplo announced dryly, spreading his arms, "I'm not dead."

Lotto folded his arms. "How do we know for sure?"

"He did bring back that human," Britta pointed out.

"I'm not dead," Haplo repeated, lifting his shirt. Alfred, who had been raised in a culture with much stronger nudity taboos (meaning a culture that actually _had_ nudity taboos), averted his gaze, stared intently at the wall. "See? No Sartan runes."

Lotto made a great show of inspecting the man's tattoos, of squinting at the scar over Haplo's heart-rune and mumbling about 'just how small can the Sartan make it, anyways?' but was eventually forced to admit that no, Alfred had not murdered Haplo and resurrected him as a mindless slave.

"This is getting ridiculous," Marit growled, fire burning in her eyes.

"Marit-"

"No, Alfred, it is."

"No it's not," Lotto piped up. "He's a Sartan."

"And we're Patryns," Marit snapped. "I know. But this one didn't send our ancestors to the Labyrinth. This one didn't create its monsters. This one saved your lives-"

"With help," Alfred interjected. "It was mostly you and Hap-"

"If Alfred wanted us dead, he could turn himself into the dragon and sit on us," she continued, steamrollering the embarrassed Sartan. "And there wouldn't be a thing we could do about it. Since we're still alive, we can safely assume that he wants us that way."

Alfred winced, not certain how much he liked Marit's logic.

But fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), it made perfect sense to the children. They relaxed a bit. "So why don't you want us dead?" Britta asked, genuinely curious.

Alfred's answering expression was part hurt, part annoyance, part frustration, part exasperation, part disbelief, with just a dash of grudging amusement. "Why _would_ I want you dead?" he demanded.

"You're a Sartan."

"An accident of birth," Marit sniffed.

Alfred sighed, the sound rattling in his throat. "Children. I'm not going to hurt you. You have already been hurt so badly…. It's wrong. What my ancestors did all those centuries ago, it was very, very wrong. I wish I could go back, keep them from Sundering the ancient world and imprisoning your ancestors, but I cannot, and their bones were dust before I was born. All I can do is try to fix their—and my own—mistakes." His voice was earnest, passionate; this was the man who had stood before the Council of Seven and told them what's for.

"You know what?" said Tset, voice filled with wonder. "I think he might be telling the truth."

* * *

...I haven't touched this fandom for months... *is shot*

But I will finish my stuff! Promise! It'll just take a while, because I'm super-busy and the muses died an abrupt death (but on the plus side, I'm getting pretty good at muse-based necromancy) and have I mentioned being super-busy? I will do better next time. I _will._

-Antares


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